


Little Beast

by LegendofMajora



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Little Beast - Richard Siken, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 15:07:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2585885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendofMajora/pseuds/LegendofMajora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Izaya laughs and Shizuo snarls—for that Izaya presses deeper into his skin, distancing his head so Shizuo's bangs fall in his eyes yet the death glare remains as violent as always. One day Izaya thinks it's going to be the end of him, if Shizuo doesn't rip his throat out first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Beast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosegoldvegeta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosegoldvegeta/gifts).



He thinks he knows parasite more than he does. Draw him out, taunt, and when Shizuo's close enough he'll pounce then, sinking in his teeth and won't let go until he's nearly dead. And most times, he's covering himself in a spray of blood with each and every punch Izaya doesn't dodge. Teeth click together and his nose breaks in an attack of the first four knuckles of Shizuo's right hand, grinding into his face so maybe he'll get the record straight and _leave._ Go back to wherever he comes from because even Hell wouldn't have a place for the flea that sucks Satan dry. Shizuo's not a religious man and he never has been—not with the monster's image he keeps bound in flesh—but Izaya is the crown of thorns in his head whenever he sees him, reminding always of the endless persecution for being a monster.

But wait, he takes that back. Shizuo has not and will never be a saint. He can shed the blood, fill the streets with his own for the satisfaction of those who thirst for it like rain. Sometimes when Izaya's lucky, blood will ooze and drip down arms, chests, cheeks and lips. Until he passes out but by then Izaya is already gone. He is peace: his name is peace, and he's never met someone more violent than himself. Blood-colored eyes don't count when all they see is red and the edge of a knife, so he's not really a person anyway. A monster, and how he can be classified as what Shizuo is makes his stomach boil over into his throat. (It isn't like he's the one who wants to be a monster.)

"Shizu-chan," not again with the most annoying voice he's ever heard. "What are you thinking about?" The voice comes from behind him and he turns, going from minding his own business after talking with Celty to somehow being pulled into another game of chase. Veins bulge in his forehead despite his best efforts. Muscles tighten and clench, preparing for giving blows and crushing skulls. What he doesn't ever admit to is how his body comes alive, buzzing and lightheaded like a high whenever he sees Izaya, wanting to end the flea's miserable existence right here and now. There's the possibility, however, that it'll make him even more of a monster.

When he turns he's slammed against the wall behind him—it takes a lot of force for Izaya's pathetic arms but Shizuo feels utterly nothing—the only threat is the knife against his throat that presses a bit too deep and blood trickles into the clothes Kasuka gave him. Shizuo's eyes narrow and his fingers twitch for Izaya's frail bones to snap like toothpicks. There aren't very many people around in their little standoff area, being of a more shady neighborhood Shizuo has to pass when he walks home from the park from another meeting with Celty. It's peaceful and quiet, so he doesn't mind until about the time Izaya decides to make himself a nuisance. No one looks at them but their hushed mutterings and the skittering of feet means they know better than to stick around and stare.

"I-za-ya," he growls, butting his forehead against Izaya's and the sting of the blade on his throat starts to make itself known. "I'm going to kill you, you shitty flea." His blood is pumping through his veins at an electrifying throb, waiting for the fight-or-flight response from the monster who's pinning him to a wall. At the back of his mind, safely away from all his full-front anger bursting the seams of his veins keeping his blood from choking Izaya's throat when it tries to lunge, is noting this is the first time Izaya's pinned him down without warning. Something's up, and if he takes the time to realize it now may not be the best situation for him.

Izaya laughs and Shizuo snarls—for that Izaya presses deeper into his skin, distancing his head so Shizuo's bangs fall in his eyes yet the death glare remains as violent as always. One day Izaya thinks it's going to be the end of him, if Shizuo doesn't rip his throat out first. But Shizuo doesn't know that. "Is that all you can come up with? I think you're hurting your intelligence." he smirks, pressing deeper so that more than a trail of blood breaks through the skin. "Oh, wait, Shizu-chan is an idiot. He doesn't even understand what intelligence is." Shizuo's lips curl and a low rumble comes from his throat, muttering swears of ripping the stupid flea apart and showing him just what intelligence is. But Izaya keeps talking, with a smug grin like he's won a game they haven't played yet. "But I'm not here for that. And you might have enough of air space in that monster head of yours to know why."

"Doubt it, shitty flea," Shizuo retorts, not moving to slam Izaya's head into the bricks catching on Shizuo's clothes like he's waiting for something. "Get off of me, so I can kill you properly." Izaya laughs at this, thinking it's oddly hilarious he has a monster who can easily push him off—and he doesn't, like he's afraid of the knife that's little more than a nuisance of a toothpick. Blood trickles down his knife, onto Izaya's fingers and he relishes in the thick hot liquid, moving trails down his fingers and his hands like a love letter signed with his skin in a twisted grin for a seal. They're not going anywhere. "What're you gonna do, stab me to death with a toothpick? That's pathetic for a parasite like you."

Izaya laughs, cackling in the unusual way he does that makes him sound more mentally unsound than he possibly is. "And leave your rotting body in a dumpster when I'm bored of letting you bleed to death? How unromantic, Shizu-chan." Staining the wall Izaya wipes at Shizuo's cut throat on the brick wall, smearing the stain and smirking when Shizuo's eyes narrow to slits. He's guessing, Izaya observes Shizuo's brain turning the cogs in his empty head to figure out what Izaya's planning. He'll never be close enough, unless if he's going to try and surprise Izaya again. Too bad Izaya loves and hates surprises.

In the same fashion, it's all more or less a blur of cold steel and blood and warmth pressing to Shizuo's lips, hungry and searching for more in what can only be described as his archenemy, Izaya, is kissing him. Hard. Which makes no sense at all and there isn't much he can do, feeling the sting of Izaya's swtichblade in his throat while Izaya is buzzing against him, searching and wanting more when he nips at Shizuo, trying to elicit a response. There are too many thoughts in Shizuo's head, sinking in like the crown of thorns and he's pinned to the wall, where the life is being sucked out of him by a parasitic flea.

And Shizuo gives, feeling the excited smirk against him and choosing to turn off his thoughts now—if he doesn't they're hazardous like the flea's eyes the color of stop signs—when a hand grabs Izaya's chin, pulling him closer as if they're physically too far despite they're next to on top of each other. Izaya kisses like bruises, control, and relentless to get what he wants as a show of aggression. His lips press hard to Shizuo's, teeth clicking when they move clumsily together and nipping at Shizuo's lower lip when he isn't fast enough to give him what he wants. Then it's Shizuo controlling the kiss, hand tightening at Izaya's jaw and fingers spreading into his hair to keep him in place while he pulls the flea closer, tasting more and more the elusiveness that keeps Izaya from getting caught. Despite all this Shizuo still feels the switchblade pressing against his throat, mixing in the tang of metal and one of them is bleeding because Izaya starts tasting like spare drops of blood when he pries his way through Shizuo's guard rows of teeth. Shizuo doesn't like it and he captures Izaya's tongue, sucking so that reverberates into his mouth and the taste is starting to make him dizzy. He doesn't know what is is—keeps pressing to find out and suck out the flavor because it's itchy and his skin crackles like flint. Izaya moves closer, pressing and the friction creates fire in shaking and knees locking against Shizuo's while he doesn't look like he can stand much longer.

But then like the flea actually grows a brain his eyes widen after they've barely slipped shut enough to relax, which isn't what he's supposed to do and he pulls away just as quickly as he tackles Shizuo, trailing saliva and wiping his mouth where his lips swell and there's a crack down the center of his bottom lip. Izaya grins to rid himself of the strange expression of cluelessness, smirking and, "Thanks, Shizu-chan!" before he's off disappearing into the growing shadows of the sun fading over the city limits. While Shizuo's brain effectively fries itself as he tries to reboot his original thought process before being interrupted, he finds something interesting and it sticks in the center of the angry flares that race up from his toes to the skin beneath his fingernails. It's a messy process of sorting himself back out while muttering angry expletives and talks himself into believing that Izaya's just fucked up and it's a new game of revenge just to piss him off.

His apartment is dark after sunset when he arrives, but his nerves still buzz like the refusal of flames overhead dying in the clouds because they twist and dance whenever the sun sets, coloring the sky like bruises and the markings of an unsteady knife. And as far as spraying himself with scalding water that will freeze in three minutes, Shizuo tries to wash out the poison that leaks and contaminates his head. For whenever he closes his eyes, even if it's just a blink, he sees Izaya confused and lip bleeding when he hides it with a smirk and takes off. Shizuo tells himself that he doesn't go after Izaya and beat him to death with a street sign and a wall is because it's not worth it. Not now, when he's tired and doesn't want to face another night of having Izaya invade his thoughts like a disease.

And after hours of debating this and pondering what just won't _die_ already because it sticks in his head like something important he's discovered. Besides the angry realization that the flea was wearing something and now Shizuo can't get the fruit pie taste off of his mouth like the blood that's still on his tongue. He's brushed his teeth about thirty times now but blood has a penchant for lingering.

Izaya tastes like alcohol— _is that whiskey_ —and salt water.

_~_

"Damn it, damn it, damn it..." Shizuo's muttering to himself when his mind strays too far. The burn of strong alcohol and salt is on his tongue and he bites himself more than once, tasting blood the third time his teeth graze his flesh and hisses. From beside him Tom-san is peering at Shizuo curiously, questioning what's been bothering Shizuo for three days now. It's not like Shizuo to keep quiet—Tom has asked, several times in fact if Shizuo's alright—and continue on grumbling. Maybe it'll resolve itself on its own, though it doesn't look like it's getting any better for Shizuo.

"Hey, Shizuo," Tom starts, catching Shizuo's attention while they finish with their walk through Ikebukuro. The list of people today is dramatically shorter with Shizuo's help, leaving three more mandatory. "Why don't we go get some lunch? There's not much left we need to do today." It's light conversation Shizuo appreciates for the break while his mind's haywire, lighting a cigarette with a nod. With the first rush of nicotine it does little to break down his frustration that's been lingering. The ashy taste doesn't get rid of the stinging salt that's rubbed in to his tongue like a burn.

"Russia Sushi?" Toms asks, breaking in past Shizuo's angered silence yet again and Shizuo nods, dragging a breath through his cigarette in a hopeless attempt to calm himself down. He can't help the anger rising, creeping up higher when his mind's restless as night and too tired to keep the invasive thoughts from reappearing. Glancing to Tom-san, Shizuo doesn't even want to say what's bothering him—he's sure that Tom's concerned because this is the fifth time he's asked the silent question—and yes, he's fine. No, he doesn't think he's _okay._ But Tom doesn't need to know, and it's not any of his concern.

Tom gives a look, a passing glance that is left unanswered like the crumpled cigarette between Shizuo's fingers he pinches from his mouth. It's hopeless to try and fill his mouth with smoke when it tastes like ash and alcohol from his days of being a bartender. Countless tendrils of smoke, from the women who flirt with him while too drunk to realize the powder dropped in their drinks or the morons that smell like the sickly sweet tobacco some use because they don't like the smell of overt pathetic gluttonous slime they are. Up until he sees one of the girls leaving in the arms of a man she doesn't even know and then there's a body flinging out of the club and hitting his point home or knocking down a street sign or a billboard.

And when Izaya comes, the bar goes silent because they know it's this time where either get out or hide. Because tables start flying the moment Izaya greets "Shizu-chan!" and the information broker flies out with a table crashing into him. Then the chase is on, Izaya laughing as he runs from Shizuo who's going to be sternly reprimanded or fired this time when it's Izaya's fault for causing Shizuo misfortune. One of his greatest hobbies and the roar of Shizuo is the best sound he's heard when it takes breaking down Shizuo's facade of humanity to bring out the beast he wants to see.

Nothing more is what it is. Shizuo shakes his head, scowling while he catches up from a few steps behind Tom while they head over to Russia Sushi. His fingers clench into his palms, fingernails at least blunt so he doesn't cut his palms again and not realize until Tom's staring and Shizuo realizes he has to get his suit cleaned again. Crowds of people pass by on the route to Russia Sushi, greeting Simon's bellow with a nod of his head and another glance at him—two pairs of eyes, the same question-answer. Maybe it's obvious by the grating expression Shizuo has on his face—like he wants to kill someone—that gives off more than he's not focused on what's at hand. He's been thinking, Tom notices, of something else.

Shizuo's still steaming when Tom orders for them in a booth, waving off the chef's concern when Shizuo's surrounding himself in an aura of festering anger. Like a plague's wafting through the air, emanating from Shizuo in the corner of the booth and it's a warning sign like a red stop sign (danger, danger, red eyes ahead) in the middle of the restaurant. It means today isn't a good day, and neither will tomorrow be at this rate. Possibly the rest of the week. But as long as they stay away Shizuo will quietly simmer in trying to contain himself because his brother says he's better than his temper. So he tries. And nearly breaks the table when he sets his hand on the edge.

"Shizuo," Tom knows it's redundant but his bodyguard isn't looking like he's any better. "What's going on? You've been in a mood for the past couple of days. Something happen?" He sets his hands folded in his lap and sits forward, waiting patiently as Shizuo's tongue tries to unwind from the knots of hesitation and old fury that's been sitting for too long. Yet he doesn't want to say too much or Tom will be dragged into what he shouldn't be a part of because hell, it doesn't make much sense to Shizuo anyway. Not the pressing of lips that taste more like salt and dark stains of hard liquor. He hates the taste but not so much the feel, delicate almost pressing hungrily against his and searching for more when he demands for filling himself with the taste so he can't feel the space between them. And he reaches, pressing his knife into a carotid artery and laughing—the taste is—

Shizuo growls, covering his eyes with a hand and leaning on an elbow. He's the martyr for a cause he doesn't even know about when the thorns dig into his head, constantly throbbing around thoughts and seeping in when the blood spills. He isn't the man who sheds his blood in frustration at others but himself—being the paragon of an illogical existence in a logical mind—pieces coming together at times when people choose to forget instead of understand. So he bleeds like the last breath of sunlight in the sky that refuses to go, but he isn't the streaking that results when the sun falls and for some reason it's like he can't die. Maybe a blessing or a curse but Shizuo is constantly aware of his own mortality the way he can damage and take the blunt dismissal of remembering he isn't human enough.

"It's nothing." Is all he says. Tom-san raises an eyebrow with a curious look that isn't the flea's because he doesn't smirk (he's never like that flea) and he looks concerned. With no real explanation and the borderline set between them it's Shizuo who isolates himself a little further—he'll kill himself on isolation just to keep himself from showing what he is—and Izaya's eyes are burning on his skin, lips and teeth clicking with Shizuo's. Nothing is making sense where his mouth burns without a cigarette between his teeth.

Before they can continue on the road to nowhere filled with blocks and broken street signs, the chef brings over their orders and gives a nod to Shizuo, a hopeful smile that the day will get better. He and Tom are silent, waiting for the other to speak as to shape the way to steer in the conversation when Shizuo's lack of focus is concerning. He looks so angry and Tom for the life of himself can't figure out why. Shizuo broods and Tom's unsure of what the root cause is and why it takes three days to beat himself up over what's on his mind. It's more than obvious Shizuo hasn't slept, smelling of cigarettes much more strongly than usual and there are dark circles under his eyes.

Tom hears the door open with a ringing bell, signaling the arrival of another customer and out of habit from the angle he's at, he glances carelessly to the door where he notices Izaya conversing with the chef, most likely to order something and not realizing Shizuo is here. The danger of the situation—or, the coming situation—is all too present to Tom. But how to prevent Shizuo from seeing him? He knows Shizuo doesn't try to start commotion just because, but he'd rather not lose Shizuo in the middle of the day again. Tom knows the consequences of destroyed street signs and building walls to try and intervene beforehand.

He moves, shutting the sliding door to their booth shut and feels Shizuo's curious glance on him, heading back to his sushi when the door is completely shut. "What was that for?" he asks, popping another roll of sushi into his mouth and swallowing shortly after. Tom doesn't know if it's best to withhold the truth from Shizuo (he doubts it will end well anyway; Shizuo needs to remember that this is for his own good) when they're in a confined space. They're both heading into the lull of a warm afternoon with little work left to do and it's peaceful. Tom wants to keep it like this, knowing Shizuo beats himself up whenever an incident happens because he can't control the urge to bash Izaya's head against whatever he can find.

Too bad that plan doesn't work. Someone walks over, sliding the door open and a voice. "Shizu-chan, pretending to be human again? How pathetic for a monster like you." Izaya's cheeky taunt filters in, just before the table starts cracking under Shizuo's fingers that grip it tightly. Izaya has a bag in hand, quickly leaving the restaurant when Shizuo's brain processes _kill kill kill kill kill kill damn it damn it kill—_ and he leaps to his feet, growling with a roar tucked in his teeth under his ashy tongue and the door slams open, clanging loudly as the sound reverberates roughly in Tom's ears.

" _Flea!"_ Ground trembling under the roar of his voice Shizuo stomps out, heading after Izaya who has just bolted out the doors, laughing while Simon outside is probably unamused.

"Shizuo, let's think about this, you can't just—" Tom tries to reason but Shizuo's looking worse for wear when his anger reaches a critical point, boiling over and he takes off, leaving Tom and his barely touched sushi behind with a sigh from his employer. Another day of taking the rest of their clients, Tom comes to the acknowledgment when there's not much else he can do.

"Didn't I tell you to get the fuck out of 'Bukuro!?" Shizuo snaps when he comes to a standstill, Izaya grinning and the sliver of white teeth come through his parted lips, like the flash that comes when his teeth click against Shizuo's, pulling at his lower lip—Fuck. Shizuo shakes his head as to clear his thoughts, anger rising and overflowing as he seethes, growling under his breath. Izaya barks a laugh, chuckling as he hasn't quite realized what may be on Shizuo's mind is running through his thoughts, tangling his words so he keeps smiling to hide what he doesn't feel like sharing. "I'm gonna kick your smarmy little ass, I-za-ya!" Shizuo bites, eyes flicking to the drawn blade aimed at him in Izaya's grasp, knowing it can cut through his flesh but Izaya never does throw it. In his sleeve there are dozens of flickblades for him instead.

"And why do I deserve to have my ass kicked?" Izaya's eyes glitter like streetlights and bloodstains as he stifles a laugh, lips tearing into a devilish curve of a smirk. Shizuo could drown in those eyes, overfilling with blood like his fingers when his rage is moving too fast—slipping through his fingers and before he can hear the screams. It's not on purpose, but an accident how Shizuo can drown himself in what is a reflection of the same pumping heart beneath his third and fourth ribs, pounding in anticipation. People are scurrying or staring. Pick one, damn it. Or just fuck off so he can't do what he doesn't mean to—"Shizu-chan, I'm hurt. You're interrupting my lunch and the rest of my day just because you have territory issues." he spits, grabbing his plastic bag of that disgusting fatty tuna wrapped and packaged carefully.

Don't say it. Don't dare—"You _monster._ " It slips through Izaya's lips like the blood from the times Shizuo breaks his nose against a brick wall, cracking the wall and smashing Izaya's face so he bleeds and bruises, laughing the entire time. Shizuo's not a monster—Izaya's fucking suicidal. And he keeps pissing Shizuo off, provoking him to chase for some unknown reason that leads to always self-hate (on both ends) and broken bodies in broken cities. Shizuo's more or less bloody, but sometimes he doesn't know Izaya passes out on the days his nose breaks.

Celty usually finds them—never says a word about each other—at different times. On one hand she takes Izaya to Shinra, and then she talks with Shizuo on the way home. Doesn't understand the dynamic of twisting hatred that sears their veins black like the blood in Izaya's mouth the moment he sits up and vomits blood. Then comes the time his ribs are broken from a projectile vending machine. Shinra always thinks he won't make it when his lungs started filling with fluid. Neither Shizuo or Izaya know exactly (how far) they're related to each other when it comes to broken heartstrings bleeding the blues of being too weak with murmuring apologies to Celty and silent screeching that is all his thoughts are when he washes the blood off and another round of bitter laughter as a first-aid kit. It's on the house.

In the end, they look like animals. Snarling and huffing, spitting blood and venom until one of them falls or slithers away. The chase is on but neither ever win, even if Izaya escapes he knows it's one chance of escaping with his life but another part left behind. It's not until the middle that they realize how pointless this is (to themselves, that is; they never communicate the same thoughts) mixing in dull pain in another mixed drink of three parts danger, two parts chase, one part broken, and topped with the same flavor—same brand for different price—of emptiness. The mirrors and shop windows still reflect the same stare of horror and destruction lying beneath piles of whatever stitched-together remains can still portray on waxy complexions dotted with dry blood.

They're animals.

"You reek, flea." Shizuo growls, hands snatching a nearby street sign and Izaya laughs. (Shizuo never sees how his right hand holding the bag flicks to move his jacket sleeve lower.) "Can't you get it and stay wherever you came from, shitty flea?" Hearts pounding, anticipation rising like anxiety and adrenaline shot with heroine over the lethal dosage.

"Why so angry, Shizu-chan? I just wanted to say hello. No need to be so mad." Izaya steps back, pulling Shizuo almost as if by string, one step forward. "Honestly, Shizu-chan. You don't know how to control yourself. Like a beast, ne?" he jabs, stepping aside when he hears the warning call of a street sign whistling through the air straight at him. It crashes with the sounds of metal crunching into metal, denting some building wall and people are starting to get the message. Izaya stays—he's never been one to run away. Well, in his definition. Shizuo only thinks of him as a coward tucking tail and hiding when he gets the chance. But Shizuo is a monster that can spit lava if he tries, having it sludge through his veins and freeze to form bones that won't break anymore.

Izaya knows all monsters have their weakness. To be exploited, celebrated and cherished—before they're stabbed in the proverbial heart and fall over dead. He doesn't know that Shizuo has a weakness he's not aiming for intentionally. But it works on Shizuo the same way it works on him like murder-suicide he can't worm himself out of. It's he himself who digs the trap he falls into in the first place. He's waiting for Shizuo to come join, unaware Shizuo does more than a fine job of taking himself apart, piece by piece, in a trap his own frail Achille's Heel. For the both of them, it's the same thing they don't know subverted when they play chase-and-kill.

"I'm not angry, I just want to kick your ass!" Shizuo roars, shrieks of fear echoing in his ears when he stomps closer to Izaya to grab another object and throw. "Isn't that right, flea?" Nothing is in his mind but _kill kill kill_ bouncing up and down, bounding around in circles weaving in and out of the same sticky web that serves as his memory, avoiding the same tangle as the taste of whiskey and salt water sprinkled with blood, pressing as hard against his lips that a flower has the same strength to do the same.

Wait. _Shit._ "The problem with Shizu-chan is that you can't be swayed by reason. Just empty-headed and useless, even with the strength of an untamed beast." Izaya sneers, laughing under his breath at the thoughts—not quite Shizuo standing in front of him—but the web of lies he keeps spinning unintentionally and the connection between them isn't too clear besides the images they're repeating. Over and over, blood trickling like the scent of metal and tobacco ash that one day will ruin Shizu-chan's monstrous teeth like the slowly-blackening lungs from which he steals the air and claims it like his lips.

Shizuo snarls, once again. A trashcan hurls straight at Izaya he manages to scrape by—he's getting too careless, feeling the metal scratch through his jacket and rolls his eyes like he's expecting to fail. So he straightens himself, lips fading to press together when the taste of cigarettes and raw flesh come to mind, pulling himself together with fluidity. As if not to disturb the air around him and out of a tentative shyness, or shame or a desire for what Shizuo doesn't know is interrupting his thoughts and ripping any sanity left apart and to not let aware how much he's shaking (the adrenaline, he says) beneath his skin.

And the beast himself watches when Izaya flees with a turn on his heels—everyone can see how his muscles work—when he tightens like a cord while his skin barely keeps him inside and then lets go, initiating the chase where predator and prey aren't too sure of who they are to each other. All they know is running, shouting and chasing while the city eventually falls to its knees, waiting for the final death blow and then kicked down one last time when Izaya feels the shuddering of a pole slamming into the platform he's on while he scales a building. Shizuo demands with the attention of Ikebukuro as his witness and potential victim of a mercy killing that Izaya get the _fuck out of Ikebukuro._

"Get back here!" Izaya hears the usual tune of Shizuo's rabid bites, animal in behavior and it's no wonder Shizuo can't function in society. He hears Izaya's dark laughs, sharp and carefully calculated over breaths to keep himself pushing forward, moving away from the rising tide of destruction and various messengers of death landing around him. Usually metal and biting with claws sinking in defeat when Izaya dodges, hearing the occasional growl of frustration when Shizuo knows he misses. It's like he's doing this on purpose with how horrible his aim is. Or he's stupid.

It's more of one than it is the other but it's also meaning something else Izaya isn't preparing himself for with his own ruined thoughts running like trains and crashing when it jars on thinking too much of Shizuo. Not like it's going to do him any good when he's running as fast as he can, maybe not exerting himself to full strength because the twisted ankle from two weeks ago probably hasn't healed all the way yet. Pain chirps, dull and thick like a system failure shutting down and shuddering as it goes, running and leaping from place to place before he hits the ground hard and with the rising claim of ache from the heels of his feet he keeps racing ahead. Izaya only feels good—swelling with impish glee—when he's moving. Panting and trembling but alive and on fire with nerves and hormones.

"Flea!" Shizuo draws out like the building roar that's coming to crash down, hurling another vending machine and he hopes it hits—it doesn't. Damn it. "What the fuck is with you!? What are you planning?" he demands, pushing himself faster and hurling a garbage can while he's sprinting and it rips off the ground like an empty paper cup. Izaya's probably laughing because Shizuo thinks he hears it—not the one in his head, get out get out get—they turn another series of corners, smashing buildings and dodging barbs and people— _out_.

When Izaya tries to scale another building and ditch Shizuo, bored already and irritated when his mind doesn't want to cooperate with thinking only of escape and not—he catches when he's jumping to a window pane and something strikes him on the healing ankle sprained from a vending machine. This time he brushes off the pain as something minor—a warning nip from some yappy monster that can't possibly—until his eyes widen and the air beneath his fingers is too tangible. Too much there to realize that this isn't happening until it's too late like the last bated breath of frost on the winter roads of Tokyo. His feet slip and the last thoughts on his mind are fleeting when he's starting to process the reality of not being able to escape this high up and Shizuo prepares to launch a sign at him.

So it's summer, it's suicide; helpless in struggling like sleeping at the bottom of a pool. And Izaya never likes water so he slips and skids off the window pane (it's not _that_ high he's looking for) before he hears the unfamiliar sound of wind rushing past his ears and teasing the throb that strums him like a too-tight string, vibrating so much he can't help the noise that breaks the air. It's his lungs returning the breath he stole from Shizuo in a cruel twist of fate and irony Izaya doesn't much care for one of those although it doesn't help much. He falls like diving off of a mountain into the clouds beneath and twists to try and risk the least possible amount of damage available to him when the Earth reaches up to claim his limbs.

Izaya calls himself a god because he can do what humans can't.

He can't, however, move away from the street sign that comes to greet him on his way down until it slaps him in the face with crushing anti-gravity force. In which he stills in midair, still falling though it feels like forever when it's only been less than a fourth of a second in actual time passing, and then the last of his consciousness is rattled out of his head. He won't have to come to the belief that he's wrong sometimes.

"Izaya!" Shizuo snaps, thinking this is another trap and pushing away the intrusive thoughts with the phantom of a knife pressing into his throat. "The fuck are you doing?" It's much too fast: the fall of a listless body and Shizuo in his unfortunate sense of faith and baseless luck to unwillingly become the one to catch Izaya's mistake. By the time he's realizing something's off and Izaya's not moving, it's too late to protest when one fourth of a second he's confused and the next eighth Izaya comes crashing down on him. With the force of his terminal velocity Shizuo loses his footing, falling on his back when he's caught unaware and now feeling his head collide with the pavement and his teeth click together painfully in the preamble of a concussion.

He groans, eyes closed to slits peeking out from eyelashes when he feels his head throb in sharp pangs of blood spilling warmth radiating from the back of his skull. The regular reek of metal hits the hair in sharp notes tugging at his hair and ringing throughout his ears, letting him just how much the ground despises human skin. But he feels heavier—like something, maybe a vending machine—rests on him, warm and unmoving. He's about to close his eyes and let his swirling vision calm, but he remembers vending machines aren't this light and they're not warm. Nor do they smell like a foul odor of parasites and blood oozing into his clothes. (His clothes...damn it!)

Swallowing mud, swallowing glass, the smell of blood on the first four knuckles. It's the process of pulling himself to his elbows—careful, dark taste of alcohol and salt pooling in his mouth underneath the blood of biting his tongue—and feeling the slick sound of something heavy moving when blood loosens friction. Opening his eyes through the sharp cuts of his eyes, refusing to move past a squint when he blinks and tries to clear his vision that pulses with his slowing heartbeat. Enough up on the weight resting in his elbows Shizuo exhales in a pinched groan made silent with grinding his teeth together, throbbing head aching all over in tandem to the pulsating pricks of shards of glass and undigested gravel sinking fangs and claws into his spine.

If only he knew.

...Because, in his lap and slumping over him, resting a bloodied head that ruins more of his shirt the longer the seconds pass when Shizuo stares, is the flea. His legs flop awkwardly off of Shizuo with movement and he's dangerously close to falling off of Shizuo and rolling onto the ground. The way he's lying utterly still is the only barrier, breakable with one wrong breath and misstep off the ledge of control. He can't do that, though. It's not fair when Izaya—is he—isn't able to put up a fight and be put down the only way a real monster should be but then that means Shizuo's a monster if he does take another life. Doesn't like violence, he says.

So Izaya gets lucky. Shizuo's thoughts are thankfully silent, freezing and churning in place when he sits up further and moves an arm around Izaya's sliding form and carefully grab him around his waist. He stills, unmoving against Shizuo while the blond stifles the groan that comes when he blinks to clear his eyes and not his empty mind on pause. The feeling applies to the past throwing its shadow over the beginning, over the desktop, over the sock drawers of the times Shizuo finishes showering and it's a reminder of what he's done. The anger that remains, dark and heavy where the light can't reach as they keep repeating the same things over and over again for what purpose because Izaya's not dead and Shizuo isn't kidnapped and murdered. Like someone has the power to do that. (Sometimes, he thinks when he's not thinking and not looking it sneaks up on him, he thinks Izaya can.)

Shizuo moves, uncoordinated and hissing at every other exhale slipping past a growl and teeth bloodied with his tongue, up slowly on his knees with his aching head dragging him back down and Izaya held against him. He's not entirely sure of what he's doing or if it's right but he's not thinking and for once he's grateful for the blissful silence. Izaya's already driven his body into Shizuo's like a crash test car and they're both reeling in the aftereffects. Shizuo grunts when his head refuses to stop pounding and Izaya isn't making a sound when he shifts in Shizuo's arms (why is he doing this again) to be supported with one arm awkwardly supporting his head and neck while the other shifts under his thighs. It's in their best interest, Shizuo thinks with one moment of clarity and confusion, to get to Shinra. That way he can't be responsible for killing the flea when he's defenseless and can spare himself the lecture from Celty. Or the blood seeping onto his hands because he knows the feeling of dread doesn't ever leave. Shizuo doesn't know what it means quite yet when he won't catch the glance of two dangerously glittering eyes that are sharper than any switchblade Izaya can hold.

When it becomes a reality in the grudge of guilt, it stains his hands from the first four knuckles.

_~_

Aching like swollen frostbitten fingers his headache is more than enough to be a wake up call. Not to mention the pains of an uneven surface he's lying on (is he on the ground still?) it feels like a bed of mud, glass, blood, and broken bones. His eyes aren't opening and in a way he prefers it to the dull blindness of having his head throb. Strangely enough his right arm and his lower ribs are throbbing at a delayed rate, slower than his head does which is odd, considering the he doesn't remember much. He thinks he falls at one point in time before being knocked unconscious, placing a windowpane that doesn't grab his fingers when he slips. And then comes the grim reminder—a sharp throb tracing his spine after it clatters in his head—that he didn't miss the street sign.

Afterward, it's silent. Buzzing in his mind there are questions lingering and building with the growth of feeding off his consciousness and for where he is now he guesses Shizu-chan left him in the rubble. It explains the aching head and the taste of blood in his mouth. Part of him wants to go back to sleep but he's sleepless and throbbing too much with the slow thump of his heart dragging itself through each circle of blood. Leaving him on the ground, as cruel as Shizu-chan is means he runs out of lullabies to taunt himself with when he knows he's not going to sleep. Not now, not later, not for a long time. He never does after the deeper scars from days of not thinking on end rip open and bleed until they stitch back together and release his head from the constant headaches of falling too hard.

The ground doesn't feel like the ground. It feels lumpy, uncomfortable and sleepy like himself. Not cold, hard-pressed and digging into his skin. Both are the same in the fact they hurt, but Izaya still has another breath to drag in and it tastes not like gravel but of blood and cigarette ash.

What?

"Oi, wake up already." Izaya stays silent, automatic breaths filtering his lungs and setting the soft throbbing reminding him he's still alive. But the voice isn't speaking to him: it's too soft and not quite there like cheap wallpaper and saliva for glue. He recognizes Shizuo's voice right away amongst the throbbing of his head that holds him hostage and grinds his teeth together. Shizuo keeps talking, unaware and maybe it's best that way. "You can't sleep, stupid flea. You're supposed to be awake by now so I can throw you out of Japan and you'll finally get the message to fuck off."

Ah. Shizu-chan is driving the tone of his voice into Izaya's ears the same way Izaya finds himself wanting to drive his hands into that monstrous body to figure out what makes Shizuo so frustrating and elusive enough to slip through his fingers and the studs of his rings around his skinny fingers. Izaya decides not to make a sound yet, hearing Shizuo breathe—inhale quietly, like he's afraid to disturb the air—and Izaya knows he's not done talking to himself or whatever he thinks is listening. In Shizuo's apartment (there never is much here, anyway) Izaya realizes where he is (on a couch) from the smell of cigarette ash and the hum of Shizuo's low voice. He never speaks so quietly. Not like Izaya's heard. "Fucking flea, what are you doing? Get off my couch and leave already." he pauses and feet pad over—Izaya holds his breath unintentionally but he has to let it go—"Why do I even keep you here. I should've just dumped you at Shinra's," that explains the stiff feeling around his right arm and his chest that feels like bandages it means one thing—"and ignore you. But Celty insisted and she said..." he lowers his voice to silence and his sentences hangs in the air like limp hair stained with blood. The dull pain echoes and pushes back and forth from Izaya's fingertips to his elbow, cold and his fingers are clammy when he thinks he has a fever from losing enough blood to make a crime scene. Or the same amount Shizuo gave when Izaya was shot in the chest ten months ago and needed a blood transfusion—he'd rather not think about that.

(He knows who found him. They both do.)

Far from being subverted his thoughts gain sound and friction, itching and aching for answers he doesn't have in his fingers not yet when he's not even sure about the questions. Despite what he's asking in silence Shizuo keeps talking because he doesn't realize yet that he knows more than he's supposed to. "Come on, flea. Wake up and stop doing this. I don't care if I won't kill you, just get up and go so I don't have to keep thinking." About what? This is more interesting and if Izaya ignores the heavy swarming choking up his throat with thoughts and answers he can hear Shizuo's thoughts when his voice drops into a murmur. "I didn't kill you. And I still need to find out what the hell you were doing." What's he going on about? Besides running away, there isn't much to remember because Shizuo is a monster in a bartender's suit with a brother complex that can rival Namie's. Not like that, though.

Silence rests; old and weary and Izaya's awake enough he may fall asleep again if he forgets he's on Shizuo's couch and his coat isn't—where is it? Though he can't open his eyes or he'll alert Shizuo to what will be being smashed into the wall and breaking his nose. Why he's even here isn't fully formed as a concept like viewing through frosted glass holding the breaths he catches when he's becoming more and more aware of where he is. And why he's here. Just when he thinks Shizuo will leave with one step moving away from where Izaya is in the apartment that reeks of monsters and cigarettes Shizuo surprises him when he steps close. One, two, three-

Next to him. Above him, from Izaya's intuition and his nerves are waking up in instinct to get away—get up and move—and a jingle of pills (he recognizes the sound from too many instances of injuries because of his work and Shizu-chan) shortly before he feels hot breath and how cold he really is. Before he can do anything of processing what's going on Izaya can taste cigarettes, blood, and tired with the press of lips against his and this is entirely unprecedented.

As quick as it comes, Shizuo pulls away as if he's realizing what he's done. The aftermath of every chase comes to mind when he's done showering, done pushing it away and over the casting shadows of his room he remembers how he loses control and how much of a monster he makes himself out to be feels like kissing his enemy with the same question of _why._ Izaya's not faring much better himself—thoughts racing, blood pumping and too tight in his veins that he thinks of taking a blade and letting it out—the scars of his chest and forearm old and thick and he numbly recognizes why his right arm hurts and his ribs feel like they're being crushed. Against his best intentions his eyes snap open and the light is too bright to which he blinks, shuddering when the breath he holds can't hold on any more.

Shizuo notices him first while Izaya's eyes adjust and his face contorts into a passive face of pain while he's still unaware. "Fuck!" He jumps back, feet snapping against the ground and Izaya thinks he's just scared a monster out of his skin and maybe it'll show the monster he's been looking to blame. "What the fuck, shitty flea!?" Obviously he's horrified by the way his voice halts on a threat of killing Izaya and it's a new development like his eyes opening, adjusting to the light of Shizuo's apartment and the sight of rage.

"It's not my fault Shizu-chan said all those things and decided to violate me in my sleep." Izaya replies easily, brain filling with thoughts and he tries to sit up despite the pain that ripples down his back and doesn't know about his own heart attack. He doesn't get up, lying pathetic and hurting when his ribs sting. It aches and vibrates with the echo of a heartbeat and if he listens close enough it sounds like the nights of no sleep for three days and the ones to come. Thinking and feeling and remembering the game he's not playing but the one he's been played with.

Shizuo growls, angry but his voice is low. Headache—like the one plaguing Izaya's skull. "Were you awake the entire time? The fuck is wrong with you!?" Hysterical and completely unlike Izaya's expectations because he's not dead yet but further time passing means he probably will be. And he's not even tired anymore.

"Too loud, Shizu-chan," Izaya complains in a moan and his right arm twitches to test the boundaries of being stitched and thick with bandages. "What incited your rage now; me being in your apartment when I didn't ask for this?" Shizuo growls at this even though Izaya is far from right but it's a reason and Izaya feels the rage bubbling over shift onto Izaya when Shizuo lingers too close.

"No, you didn't." Shizuo's voice is rasping with flecks of gravel and broken glass like alleyways Izaya finds himself waking up in when Shizuo manages a hit. Because they _hurt_. "So get the fuck out of my apartment, damn louse." Shizuo's not moving to break Izaya's arm or strangle him but a bottle of pills falls on him, jingling the way down.

"Shizu-chan," Shizuo is a voice like fast cars and Izaya's head is filling with useless thoughts of cigarette ash and salt water taste. "Do you treat all your guests like this? No wonder you never have any." Covers up the fact that Izaya cannot move so he holds his breath and hopes Shizuo won't notice. He's not sure what he's expecting but it's better than focusing on what he can have so he takes what he gets and tries to make it his own but this is a two-person problem and Izaya does better alone. That's all he's ever known and the painful lurching of his chest when he forgets to breathe means he's right when it's Shizu-chan he's talking about.

There's no use of trying to get answers from the stupid flea. Scratch that—Shizuo doesn't even care anymore. He wants to forget that this is happening and go to sleep if he can although it'll haunt him like every confrontation does and if he sleeps, sometimes the worst happens and Izaya doesn't even escape him in his dreams. "Just go, flea. I'm too tired from dealing with your shit. It wouldn't be fair to kill you when you're like this." Uh oh. Drops the subtle attack like the prick of skin and the first blood trail for the sharks to get the hint somethings' going on.

It begs the question. "Like what?" Izaya's running off of the high of not being killed yet and the adrenaline of being in the beast's den where the claws are in front of him but he's still alive. Testing his boundaries, as if to prove that there can't be an in between and it's either life or death when one side or the other makes the most sense and least amount of complications. As if he can afford to step somewhere wrong and then make his great escape despite the ache of pain that keeps him lying on Shizuo's sofa, staring into the eyes that won't meet his.

He wonders why.

"Fuck off, flea. It's getting late." Shizuo turns and moves away, almost reaching out first as if to grab Izaya and he doesn't, moving as if slapped away and touching acid. Izaya supposes it's fair enough but to hear and see the monster so subdued and quiet, he's trying to put the pieces together but nothing's coming up. He remembers only the slam of cold metal against his face and silence, which begs the question of how he ends up here of all places in the first place.

First, he isn't dead and from a height that tall, it doesn't seem possible without more injuries. Nothing from what he can see is broken and it doesn't make any sense. So he tries while Shizuo steps away. "You..." he thinks aloud, listing all possible explanations and through the process of elimination he comes to the only thing that works considering themselves and Izaya is proven wrong again. "You caught me, Shizu-chan. And then I'm guessing you took me to Shinra's. But you would've been injured from the speed and height I fell from, so..." Izaya curses he can't move much without the stiff ache of his chest keeping him pinned down. Shizuo says nothing and Izaya knows he's still there. Call it intuition and the challenge of listening to what Izaya baits. "You got hurt, though. You did, didn't you." From the silence he's guessing he's right and so he continues on and his thoughts are speeding up in a crescendo of asking _what does this mean_ and his answer is nothing to be sure of. "But you got us to Shinra's—maybe Celty got you? No, she didn't because you said that she wanted you to take me back. That means you went through the effort of taking me to Shinra's and then taking me to your apartment. Instead of making the courier drop me off at mine." But _why?_

"Shut up, stupid flea." Shizuo sounds tired. Roaming into the realm of exhaustion and Izaya knows he's right because they're both tired and they can't punch themselves awake so he keeps going. Waiting for Shizuo to snap and show the monster he is and Izaya can end the fascination of heartbeats, cigarettes, and warm. Speaking of which, he _is_ cold.

"I'm right; aren't I, Shizu-chan?" Izaya murmurs loud enough for Shizuo to hear and it makes his ears ring. Not used to the level of noise yet and he's going to bet he's concussed. Figures, considering Shizuo's a hardhead and an airheaded idiot at the same time. From behind him and a fair distance away Shizuo growls in a warning. Izaya disregards it anyway.

"Says you, the idiot who hit your head on me." Shizuo hisses, clearly angered enough to give in to Izaya's subtle taunting. Of course he knows what the flea's doing and he doesn't care—let the moron have a taste of his own stupidity. "But _you_ pissed me off three days ago. And _you_ provoked me to chase you and _you_ fell off of a window because it's your fault. Then _you_ landed on _me_ and you're in _my_ apartment _._ It's not my problem, it's yours, asshole." Ooh, a new insult. Shizuo's angry now. "So get _out._ I'm not dealing with your shit today."

"I would if I could sit up, Shizu-chan!" Izaya snaps suddenly, just simmering over boiling point and forgetting himself when he gives in to frustration. "But I'm stuck on your stupid couch that hurts my back and I can't get up, so why don't you shut _up_ already?" Exasperated and palms cold with sweat Izaya realizes just how far he's revealed himself and now he can't take it back. Can't pretend to laugh it off when it is the truth and he's realizing and remembering just how much Shizuo brings out the worst in him. "Unless you want to tell me what I did three days ago." he adds quickly to subvert the attention on him and admitting what he's meant to keep quiet. How he'd ever get out is unclear, however.

"It's my apartment. Don't tell me to shut up when you're being noisy." Shizuo's feet come padding over and Izaya's annoyance is met with hardened brown eyes. "And you know what you did. Don't act like you don't." he scowls, which invites for closer examination despite Izaya can only read the surface. If he tries to slip underneath he'll only be scrubbed back to where he stars.

"What would you like?" Izaya bites, thinking back three days ago and— _oh._

"I'd like my money's worth. Fuck off." Shizuo diverts his eyes, ready to turn back and leave but a hand shoots up (painfully when Izaya moves) and grabs Shizuo's arm, latching on like the foreshadow of what's to come. It reeks like the flea and he'll have to burn his couch to get the smell out. For his apartment—fuck.

"You're thinking of when I kissed you, Shizu-chan?" Izaya knows he hits what he's looking for when Shizuo's face twists into a deeper frown than a scowl. He wants to laugh, but the taste of Shizuo is on his lips and sucking his tongue, clicking against his teeth and he has to forget the images too in order to think. "Wait—you can't stop thinking about it, can you." Izaya's grin is unsettling and it substitutes how much he wants to drive his body into Shizuo's—

Wait. What?

"I'm thinking about it because I don't fucking get it!" Shizuo blurts, angry and frustrated with Izaya's antics to the point of just answering so Izaya can get what he wants and leave him alone already. But oh, he's not done. "You kissed me for no damn reason when I was minding my own business! Not even a fucking joke because you—" he cuts himself off abruptly—how does he explain that feeling Izaya's lips on his isn't a joke and wasn't that time three days ago?

"I what, Shizu-chan?" Izaya's hand curls around Shizuo's forearm and Shizuo can see the look of pain to briefly cross Izaya's face. It's the bandaged arm that's holding on to him and Shizuo _remembers_ why that bandages are there like the ones on Izaya's waist. He hates thinking about it, counting the scars that cross like train tracks and bleeding when they pop open after Izaya falls on him. Shinra counts twenty-two stitches for the right arm to stitch it back together and gives the look that Shizuo tries to communicate _he didn't know_ and Shinra nods, understanding.

"Let go of me." Shizuo pulls Izaya's hand off and lets it drop, hearing Izaya hiss in pain when the stitches pull and he quickly retracts his arm. Shizuo can't get the taste and the touch and the feeling of Izaya's buzzing skin reverberating into his mouth and hands. He'll be damned to admit that he hasn't stopped thinking—instead of sleeping, instead of hating everything else that isn't what he wants it to be—about Izaya's kiss that tastes like whiskey and salt water which he's pretty sure by now were tears. Before Izaya can ask Shizuo suddenly gets the idea in mind and he can't say no, wanting an answer for too long and waiting for longer than he should have—steps forward, fisting his hand in Izaya's shirt as if it to say _try_ to defy him—and then he pulls Izaya up despite the flinch that spills down Izaya's spine and he claims the taste that he's been craving more than the damn nicotine. This addiction keeps his mind calm until it's over. So lets himself have what he's missing like he's got a right to it.

Izaya moves against him faster than he expects despite his initial shock. It takes less than a second for his lips to move against Shizuo's and against the pain in his head and the throb of the stitches on his waist. But when he does move, he tastes and he stands on the edge of the curb because it's more than apparent to him that he wants _more_. Shizuo gives; gently and cautious but firmer than Izaya when he tilts his head to the side to deepen it. Tongue flicking at Izaya's bottom lip he hears the breath of a moan before he greets wet warmth with his own, shuddering in spite of his own interest to feign not wanting this. He does, though, and when Izaya sucks the blond's tongue into his mouth he knows for sure that this isn't a joke.

He pulls away, slipping from Izaya's grasp and catching the saliva that tastes like salt water and blood and not alcohol. His own tongue's bleeding and it's dripped on Izaya's lips, glistening red on red that contrasts with Izaya's eyes, wider and dark with wanting more. And even though Izaya swallows and tries to school himself back into nonchalance when Shizuo pulls back, it's undeniable proof. Shizuo thinks he knows the answer. "I'll answer you if you tell me what you think you're doing." Voice low (not from his headache that is a mild concussion) he waits for Izaya to answer, fingers burning and lips buzzing with the hit and a high of having something over Izaya for once. Maybe this time they'll have a winner.

"Not fair, Shizu-chan." Izaya mutters, squirming against the couch and averting his eyes when he knows his smug ass has been caught. "I asked you first." His eyes are wide and his cheeks are flushing a pale pinkish color, squirming in his spot because he's uncomfortable and doesn't realize what he's doing. His body's reacting on its own to his simple games and it's not fair having no control over the thoughts soaking any logic from his brain.

"You kissed me first, flea." Shizuo provides, looking awfully smug and Izaya refrains from rolling his eyes. "And if you want your jacket back, you answer me." So that's where it went. Shizuo's sounding obsessive—taking his jacket and yet he calls Izaya an obsessive bastard. A god and a beast, not far from each other.

"Explaining is an admission of failure, Shizu-chan." Izaya smiles wolfishly and Shizuo narrows his eyes because he's heard Izaya tell him that before over the phone. "Sorry about the blood in your mouth, I wish it was mine." he gives mysteriously like it's the answer to every stupid question that comes from Shizuo's mouth and maybe he'd like to have another taste because Shizuo's not saying no—stupid, stupid, stupid; _what is he doing—_ Shizuo sighs, moving away and Izaya's thinking that Shizuo doesn't get it or doesn't care, brushing off what sounds stupid to him because in its entirety it is.

A coat drops on Izaya—it's not his fur-trimmed one and it reeks of Shizuo and cigarettes—it's warm and since Izaya's cold, the temptation to just take it is overwhelming. He doesn't know what he's doing or saying anymore and maybe it's the blood loss but Shizuo's lost more. He can't get the monster to kill him when he taunts, so something's not working or Shizuo knows more than he's supposed to. "What's this?" he asks but he knows the answer, and it's strangely different from what he expects.

Shizuo's starting to realize he's not getting anywhere and Izaya's not going to budge. So he forces the conversation to keep moving when from the corner of his eye he see Izaya shrug his coat on and drown him in the fabric embedded with Shizuo and somehow he doesn't complain too much. His face wrinkles in disgust but from watching Izaya shiver earlier he decides to make the flea less annoying and deal with it later. So to start the conversation, he asks about not the first thing that comes to mind, but the second thing that is cold and clammy and stitched wrist and ribs to hold in the tremor of when Izaya moves like fluid in air. He never stops.

"What's with your arm, flea?" It's also a question as to why he tastes like salt water and wet like he's been crying—fleas don't cry. Fleas don't cut their arms in perfectly neat tracks lined horizontally from fading colors and sizes. But they mean the same thing when Shizuo finds out by the time the sleeve of Izaya's jacket is soaked in blood and somewhere along the way of chasing each other he remembers Izaya drops his bag of ootoro before his hand is empty and Shizuo finds cuts oozing blood on the way to Shinra's apartment. Izaya's looking up at him from where Shizuo stands in front of the couch, waiting for an answer and he looks like he wants to leave. It's been a long day and he's said and done too much he's going to regret in the morning so Shizuo can just let him leave because he's satiated the desire. And it's more he wants but he can't ask for more when it's so stupidly pointless and the look Shizuo gives when he mentions his arm—Izaya knows what Shizuo sees even with a borrowed shirt on—makes him want to leave as his thoughts and impulsive decisions have overstayed their welcome.

"Pull me up so I can go, Shizu-chan. I don't feel like playing games anymore." Izaya insists, keeping up the facade of _not_ falling in his own trap, of not remembering what it feels and tastes like to kiss a monster that spills his blood for him. It's too sweet, Shizu-chan, but he can't accept the offer when he prefers to bite, swallow, and move on. Being played by his own game is the worst thing that's possible besides being beaten, but right now he's starting to numbly accept they're one of the same. At least Shizuo grabs his own shirt on Izaya's chest, pulling Izaya up and moving him without asking so that he sits and faces Shizuo.

"You're not leaving until I hear it, flea." What a dangerous choice of words. Contradicting, too, and it's just too funny that Izaya's head tips back and he lets out a pained laugh, admiring the stupidity of this tangled game he's been played at. At the same time he's feeling exhaustion pull at his eyelids and wanting to sleep comes from the three days of never sleeping.

"I'll be here for a while if you won't let me go, Shizu-chan." Izaya taunts, preparing his arsenal of words to get out of the monster's claws wrapped around him in the form of a coat and the fact he wants what he shouldn't need. But it's the end anyway so he lets it happen.

"I'm prepared. You'll never leave me alone anyway." Shizuo growls and makes himself comfortable on his own couch, lying against the other side and raising an eyebrow while he waits for Izaya to hurry the fuck up and decide whether or not he's wasting his time because this is the stupidest damn thing he's ever done but he's doing it now in what he calls a moment of temporary insanity. It's only fair because the flea is insane.

Izaya gets a dangerous gleam in his eyes, hiding the fact he's frustrated with himself and he can spot Shizuo's arousal from where he's sitting. Maybe they hate each other but it's hard to think straight with the room buzzing all around them and Shizuo swats it away like a pesky flea. Of course he does. So Izaya takes matters into his own hands, shifting onto his knees and pulling himself on Shizuo, close and intentionally going too far into how much it takes to piss Shizuo off. An eyebrow twitches and he stares into brown eyes, watching the arousal jump and the grudging glare he's giving means Izaya's succeeding more than he has been in a while.

He presses his lips to Shizuo's, eyes allowing themselves to flutter and close when Shizuo reacts immediately with an arm wrapping around him to keep him there. Izaya smirks against Shizuo's mouth, hearing "Shut up, shitty flea." and somehow they move from wanting to kill each other (mainly Shizuo, the violent beast) to Shizuo groping his shirt on Izaya because they're not close enough and he's shifting Izaya's self-control dangerously out of the balance. Izaya tastes like salt water and his blood and he's wondering if he can crack the code to find out why he's getting aroused at this and why Izaya never leaves his thoughts alone.

Izaya is dangerous. Tricky, sly, conniving, and an annoying flea. With a flea's brain. And he waits, just enough for Shizuo to get close with taunts and torments and kisses while he's already on top and winning. When Shizuo's close enough he'll pounce, bite and suck every last reaction out of the brute to figure out why they both want more. Izaya knows it's been a year-long itch that hasn't been scratched and when it is, the scab rips and tears and he's starting to realize that there's a lot Shizu-chan doesn't know.

Like _why._

And when Shizuo pulls Izaya off of him with the intent of demanding what the hell is wrong with Izaya and more so himself, it doesn't happen. It doesn't happen because Izaya already falls asleep the moment he breathes too deeply and Shizuo's just so _warm_ with the temperature of a beast. Makes sense for a parasite to latch onto what they don't have and claim it, nestling in like a crown of thorns and the bloodshed is only the best side effect. The first four knuckles of Shizuo's hand aren't stained with blood but rather they're the ones with strands of black hair pushing through the gaps of his fingers when he lays Izaya back on his couch and tries to figure out the night. His jacket is still on the flea and he thinks it's time he gives up thinking of getting it back. The flea drowns in it but it's pulled tightly around him and he doesn't want to let go. It's not a present from Kasuka, which is the only reason, Shizuo argues, he lets the stupid flea have it.

It's been a long day, Shizuo surmises because his lips taste like Izaya. This is a new development and tomorrow means having a flea in his apartment, conversations they'll have to put off until Izaya learns to stop being emotionally and socially retarded. It's not that possible that it will happen, but Shizuo knows the bug won't leave anyway.

He realizes that he can't get himself to kill the flea on his couch or when he's not being the psychotic bastard he usually is. A tentative truce on an all-out war and neither are entirely aware of where this is going. Izaya probably does, the little beast.

(But Izaya wears his jacket for the longest time when he sleeps.)

**Author's Note:**

> Finally finished! Ah, wufantasiesandtrashpop, I apologize this took much longer than it should have. But I can explain: I wrote it once, didn't like it, and then rewrote it after I already edited the first one. Which took longer than usual because I'm afraid you may not like this although I hope you do. This is based off of Richard Siken's "Little Beast" in his "Crush" series, so any lines you see in the poem can be found here. I hope this is what you wanted, and thank you for your patience.
> 
> I now also love Richard Siken's poems. They're utterly fantastic and beautiful. Thank you, wufantasiesandtrashpop for introducing it to me.
> 
> Thank you for reading, everyone.


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